Blessed be the Name of the Lord
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Exile on Main St pre-tags and missing scene: He kept seeing Sam everywhere.


**Blessed be the Name of the Lord**  
K Hanna Korossy

He'd gone back to the graveyard in Illinois.

There'd been no body to bury or even burn, and it wasn't like they had any kind of memorial up for their dad, either. But it didn't seem right to Dean that there be nothing besides the chunk of wood Bobby had stuck in the ground where Sam went down in Stull. Besides, an ancient boneyard reputed to be the mouth of Hell was not where Dean wanted his brother remembered.

So there he was, in the nice, modern cemetery where Mary Winchester had an empty grave. The last time he'd been there had been with Sam, who'd buried their dad's dogtags by their mom's tombstone. Seemed kinda right to plant Sam's money clip there, too, a gift from Jess, one of the few things Sam had tenaciously held on to over the years.

But Dean couldn't do it. His knees folded, fingers sinking into the warm dirt. It wouldn't be hard to claw his way down into the soil. But Dean couldn't make himself leave behind this tiny piece of Sam he still had.

No, that wasn't it. He couldn't bear the thought of burying Sam in any way.

"I'm not leaving you there." He thought he'd cried himself out in the car, driving through silent tears, pulling off when the sobs took over. But his voice was rough again, and Dean cleared his throat before he could go on. "I'm not burying you, Sammy. I'm going to Lisa's, but I'm not giving up on you."

The clip was cutting into his palm. Dean jammed it back into his pocket. Sam wouldn't be with their parents no matter where Dean buried what; there was no point leaving anything here, in this empty piece of ground. He tucked back his shoulders and raised his chin.

Across acres of cemetery, Sam looked back at him.

Dean stared a long moment, taking in the jeans and plaid, the breeze-tossed dark hair, that ridiculous height. He wasn't close enough to see Sam's features, but he could _feel_ his brother's hard stare.

Then he blinked, and Sam was gone.

Yeah, well. That wasn't so surprising, right? He already had Sam in his head 24/7, by turns comforting and chiding, the running monologue of a lonely and grieving heart. Why shouldn't his eyes conjure up Sam, too? It was pure wishful thinking.

Still, he couldn't help check. Drove around the cemetery for an hour, looking for any sign of a long-haired giant, or a gaping hole, or scorched earth—something. But there was nothing.

Dean's jaw was clamped shut all the way to Lisa's to keep it from trembling.

00000

He watched the news alone, glass of whiskey in hand.

"Watching" was probably a euphemism: he had the TV on and was staring at it, but Dean's mind was miles away. Back in Kansas, watching Sam fall into the hole, the ground seal up behind him. The TV, like everything else he did these days, was just an attempt at distraction from the memories and emotions.

As he couldn't seem to help keep doing, Dean reached into his jeans and traced the four rings crammed in there. It would be so easy; he would never forget the Enochian words that went with them. But then everything they'd done, all they'd sacrificed, would've been for nothing.

_But he wouldn't be in Hell, _Dean's mind argued. Sam dying any other way meant Heaven for his soul. Dean could save his brother eternal torment, and eventually they'd be together again.

And lose the world in the process. Lisa and Ben. Bobby. Cassie and Sarah and so many others. And at that cost, Dean knew he'd end up losing Sam, too. His brother would never forgive him that choice.

Didn't keep Dean's fingers from tracing the contours of the rings, wishing, wanting.

Until he caught a glimpse of something familiar out of the corner of his eye.

Dean's attention snapped back to the television. They were talking about some fire downtown in an apartment building. People had been hurt, although several kids had been safely hauled out. The camera was panning jerkily past the confusion of firefighters and onlookers and blanket-clad victims. And there as it swung back, a pixilated figure in the background, sooty and hunched. Dean leaned forward, whiskey forgotten. That almost looked like…

The camera returned to the reporter, who calmly finished her spiel. Even as Dean strained to see past her, the scene changed to something about a local supermarket.

He sank back in the sofa, blinking. It couldn't have been…right? 'Cause, well, sure, that would be the kind of thing Sam would do, running into a burning building to save people. Hey, they'd both done that before. And…yeah, it had looked like him, a lot. But it couldn't be him. Everything Dean had tried, every place he'd looked had been clear on that point: Sam wasn't coming out of that pit without Lucifer riding piggyback. Lucifer _wasn't _out, and Dean still had the rings, therefore it was impossible that Sam had returned. Not to mention, his brother would have been beating down Dean's door if he _had_ somehow found a way out, not going around saving people from fires. It couldn't be him.

Maybe Dean was going crazy.

He examined that possibility dispassionately. Lisa had found him a job, and Dean medicated himself to sleep every night. He was outwardly functional, even if Lisa still gave him worried looks sometimes and commented about his drinking. Crazy didn't act this normal, right? So what if he was seeing Sam where his brother couldn't be? As far as insane went, that wasn't so bad.

In fact, if this was how he lost his marbles, Dean wasn't sure he wanted to be sane. Because, really, what was rational about letting your brother be tortured in Hell while you had a way to let him out?

He stared at the news until it finally changed to an infomercial, but there were no more glimpses of Sam. Not until Dean went to bed, when his brother screamed in his dreams.

00000

Cas had apparently ditched his cell phone and wasn't answering any other kind of call, so Dean finally summoned Crowley.

It wasn't like he was making a deal. Okay, actually, he'd already tried that, but no one would deal with the Winchesters anymore. Crowley came because he was bound to do so and, Dean figured, probably curious.

"I don't want to deal," Dean announced preemptively when the dapper King of the Crossroads appeared.

Crowley's eyebrows rose in his high forehead. "So glad we've got that straightened out. Now if you'll excuse me…"

Dean didn't move to break the devil's trap he'd drawn on the old shed floor. "I'm not done."

"Of course you're not," the demon sighed. "What is it then? Just wanted to chew the fat? Lay a wager on your favorite ball team? Intercede for dear old Bobby?"

Dean frowned. "What?"

"Never mind."

"I want to…to ask you something."

"No," Crowley said patiently, "I had nothing to do with the mortgage bubble bursting. Although, your president and I have had some negotiations—"

"Stop," Dean growled. "I'm not in the mood. I just wanna know one thing, then I'll let you out. Is Sam still in Hell?"

Crowley tilted his head. "Really? This is why you pulled me away from my busy schedule, to ask a question you already know the answer to?"

Dean paced around the edge of the trap. "Yeah, sorry, I know how busy you are, damning souls to Hell and all that. Answer the question and you can get back to work." He cringed even as he said it, but you had to pick your battles, and crossroad demons weren't his anymore.

Crowley held up his hands, making a show of looking around him. "Do you see fire raining down from the sky? The Croatoan virus turning people into slobbering cannibals? Lindsay Lohan becoming a nun? No? Then Lucifer isn't out, which means Sam can't be out. Your brother's a package deal these days, remember?"

Dean's heart sank. He'd figured, pretty much knew, but still… "You're sure? Sam's still in the Pit?"

"If by the Pit you mean solitary confinement in the basement of Hell, then yes, Lucifer and Michael are still playing football with your brother's soul. Real football, not your bastardized American version."

"And you can't get him out," Dean continued raggedly.

Crowley pointed at him, and suddenly the rings felt warm in Dean's pocket. "It took the combined power of four horsemen to open that door. You think one demon can slip inside? I'm flattered, Dean. Irked and impatient, but flattered."

"Can anything else get him out?"

"I really do have someplace else I must—"

Dean pulled the Colt out of his jacket, casual in his aim. "I don't want to use this, but I will. Look, we helped you: we got rid of Lucifer and saved your ass, too. You owe me this much. Can. Anything. Get. Sam. Out?"

Crowley's mouth ticked down, the way Dean knew meant he would tell the truth but he wasn't happy about it. "Perhaps. Believe it or not, even I don't know everything that's out there. But consider carefully, mate—Lucifer is not known for his mercy. Even if you find a way, your precious Sam will not come out the same as he went in."

"I'll take my chances," Dean said flatly. He considered Crowley a moment, then wearily lowered the gun and stepped forward. A brush of his foot over the chalked trap broke the seal.

"Always a pleasure," Crowley said wryly, and vanished.

Dean dropped his chin to his chest. He'd gotten answers, sorta. So why did he feel more uncertain than ever?

00000

A lifetime of paying attention to temperature drops and flickering lights brought Dean's head around in the middle of dinner. He was on his feet a moment later, reaching into the back of the kitchen cabinet where he'd hidden a piece. Lisa didn't like it, but as long as he kept them unloaded and out of Ben's reach, she tolerated it.

"Dean?" she began, eyes widening as he slid a magazine in and chambered a round.

"It's probably nothing." He smiled tightly at her. "I'll be right back—you two stay here." Then he was slipping out of the kitchen, to the front door.

It was the light across the street. Light bulbs burned out all the time, but something about the location and timing of this one made the hair on the back of Dean's neck rise.

And then he saw the figure by the light pole. Tall. Dark-haired. Facing the house.

Dean broke into a run, not looking away for a second.

He couldn't control traffic, however. He had to pause for a van, and as it passed between him and the figure, he lost sight of it, just for a moment.

It was enough. When the van moved on, the sidewalk was empty, dim under the busted light.

Dean cursed under his breath and finished crossing the street anyway, examining the bushes, the cement walkway, the grass. No obvious footprints, no strange smells or cold drops, no Sasquatch hiding behind anything.

"Sam?" he whispered under his breath.

Sam didn't talk so much in his head anymore, like time was fading him. But Dean still thought he saw his brother sometimes, Sam always disappearing before Dean could reach him. If it was his brother, he wouldn't be playing tricks like this, not knowing how much pain Dean was in. It _couldn't be Sam_.

That didn't stop Dean from running after him each time.

Maybe these were flashbacks to Hell? He hadn't had any in a while, the brain protecting itself by forgetting the worst of the torment he'd suffered. But he did know Sam had been used against him in Hell, effigies of his brother tortured in front of him, torturing him, tearing into him with words. It would be just like Hell's games to keep dangling Sam in front of him and then yanking him away, like a worm on a hook.

"Dean?"

But Lisa and Ben were here, watching him with love and worry. Bobby called every week, and sometimes some of their other few friends. And Sam…Sam never did anything when Dean saw him, never shot him or cut him, never told him he was worthless and unloved. He just stood there, watching, and then vanished. It was Hell, but one of Dean's own making.

"Dean?"

He turned away, seeing Lisa silhouetted in the light of the doorway. Of his home, if he'd just let it be. There were still old books piled in the closet, several more coming on loan from different parts of the country, a dozen researchers all over the world working on his problem. Dean hadn't given up.

But for the moment, he gave in. He crossed the street, sliding the gun out of sight.

Lisa visibly relaxed the moment he did, reaching up to caress his face when he was close enough. "Is everything…okay?"

"Yeah." He lied a lot these days. Like he had to Sam when he'd promised to let it all go and embrace the apple-pie life. "Everything's fine."

Maybe one of these days he'd convince himself.

00000

Dean groaned, turning sluggishly over in bed, conscious of every muscle as it flexed. Felt like the old days, the aches after just about every hunt, the overworked muscles and new bruises and exhaustion. Must've gone on a real bender; he hadn't felt this way since—

Dean's eyes snapped open. "Sam!" He tried to push himself up, near panic when his body refused to follow orders.

"Hey, hey. Take it easy, I'm right here." A hand pushed him back flat.

A large, strong hand. Not Lisa's. Dean breathed in hard spurts as he desperately blinked his vision clear. "Sam?"

Sam's mouth twisted into a kind of smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah."

"Oh, God." Dean melted back into the bed, fumbling to press a hand down on his brother's and make sure Sam didn't leave. "I thought… Yellow Eyes, he was…"

"It was the djinn poison again," Sam said calmly. "I think they upped your dose this time—it took a while to bring you back. But you'll be fine. Azazel didn't get either of us."

That wasn't what he'd seen. It'd been Lisa and Ben suffering, not Sam. Maybe it hadn't sunk into his subconscious yet that Sam was back to worry about, too.

"All right?" Sam patted his chest, then slipped his hand from Dean's grip with pathetic ease. "Why don't you get some more sleep—we'll clean up the house." He stood and walked out the door without waiting for an answer.

Dean stared after him, stomach still knotted from the poison, but not just from that. Something was going on with Sam.

It'd been like…this heavy shell crumbling off his heart, knowing Sammy was back. Like Dean could feel and think and _live _again. The love he'd carefully packed away for his brother had hit him like a punch, but so had the realization of how much he cared for Lisa and Ben, like he hadn't been able to really experience anything until then. It was incredible.

And then the cracks started appearing. Sam's stiff embrace. His revelation that he'd been back nearly a year—a _year_—without telling Dean. His casual acceptance of his and Samuel's return. Maybe Hell had made him hard, or maybe this was some kind of PTSD. Or maybe…maybe this time he really hadn't come back one hundred-percent Sam.

The soft murmur of Sam's voice explaining something to the Campbells in the other room washed over Dean like the finest music he'd ever heard. His body was trained to relax when it heard that voice, his heart slowing and his mind clearing. The grief of the past year already seemed distant, maybe because he'd never truly embraced it. Whatever else was going on, Sam was still _back_.

Dean breathed in, lungs expanding like they hadn't for a year. He still had to figure out how Sam fit into his life with the Braedens, why half his family had come back from the dead, and what was up with the new and improved monsters. Sid and his wife were dead because of Dean, and that would have repercussions on the neighborhood besides the pain it caused him. Dean wasn't sure if he'd be able to forgive Bobby the secrets the old man had kept, or to get comfortable with this new branch of family that'd turned up.

But he had hope now, and it was like sunrise after a very long night. Sam was back. The rest had always been negotiable.

"Thank you," he whispered to the room at large.

For the first in a very long time, Dean slept without nightmares.

**The End**

_"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Job 1:21_**  
**


End file.
